


One More Time

by oooknuk



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: It's the Gathering. There can be only one, and Methos has made his mind up who it's going to be.





	One More Time

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: language, angst, a teeny bit of m/m. If you're at all nervous about the content, make sure you read the notes at the end of the story.

It isn't a surprise to see him. After all, he's the one who asked to meet. No, no surprise at all. My hands are shaking, but completely for some other reason.

He looks good. Lean, fit, tanned. The familiar not-quite-smirk, not-quite-smile on his face that always drove me crazy, still does. He must have bought the kayak for the purpose, and I guess part of me _is_ surprised that he's prepared to make the effort to row him himself across the big lake, and not use a motorboat. Especially with him hating the water so much.

I go to meet him, help him pull the canoe up onto the bank, and he extends a hand, expecting the assistance I offer automatically. His grip is strong, warm, and as we touch, he smiles for real. "Mac," he says in simple salutation.

"Methos," I return. I wait until he is firmly on dry land. "So what brings a five thousand year-old man to me?" It's an old joke, and maybe not very funny in the circumstances.

"You know it's over?"

I nod. "Joe told me. Just you and me left. Guess you must feel safer now."

My comment is entirely without sarcasm. Two years ago, an Immortal by the name of Kendrick, struck like so many of us by the Gathering madness, decided to give himself an edge. Before he killed another Immortal, he tortured them to find out which others of us they knew about, especially the old ones. And one of the last people he killed was Cassandra. The man who killed Kendrick got what he had learned. The knowledge of Methos' real identity spread like wildfire, and he rapidly became the most hunted man on the planet. What could he do? He ran, he had no choice, and hid on Holy Ground while the Gathering increased in fury and violence. I was left in the heart of it, but I didn't take the last head until just a week ago. Now there are just two Immortals left. Me and the world's oldest man. The man I love. Unrequitedly.

"No bags?" I ask.

"Not planning to stay long."

He's not even wearing his coat, and I can tell through his tight shirt that he's not carrying any weapon at all. He sees me looking, but doesn't comment. "Got a beer for a weary traveller?"

"Always." We walk up to the cabin together. He hasn't said why he wanted to meet, and I don't really care what his reason is. It's just too good seeing him again. Every day I would wake and pray that today I wouldn't get a call, or an email, from Joe saying that Methos was gone. After Amanda ... Amanda didn't last long. The old ones were the first ones who went. Amanda, Marcus Constantine, Matthew McCormick, Cassandra, all killed within six months by ruthless youngsters who cared nothing about the rules, and less about honour. It was just a slaughter.

But the message never came as the death toll mounted. And then last week, Joe called to say the man I had killed was the last one, except for Methos. Methos' email to ask if we could meet on my island came a bare day later, and I had agreed without question.

He sits on the couch and grins at me, and it seems so like old times, I am disoriented for a moment. It feels like before, when Amanda ... when they were all alive. I pop two beers and hand him one, hoping I've covered my confusion but he's noticed. "So many," he says quietly. "Good people. Most of them just living quiet, normal lives."

"The Gathering is inevitable," I say heavily.

"And now it's just you and me," he says, cutting to the chase.

"You're taking a risk, don't you think? Coming to me with no weapon?"

"We're old friends, Mac. And it's Holy Ground," he says evenly. He knows I am no threat. The question is - do I know the same about him?

I sit beside him and drink my beer. It tastes good, cold. The weather is perfect, the island has never been more beautiful, and if I wasn't mourning so many friends, I could be happy.

What am I doing, I think suddenly? Amanda is dead. They're all _dead_ and here I am, sipping beer like I have an absolute right to be alive and safe. I stand up impatiently and empty the alcohol down the sink. I've lost my taste for it.

I stand in front of Methos. "So why did you come?" I ask roughly.

He ignores my question, so it seems, and drinks the last of his beer, before setting it tidily aside on the table. He pats the seat next to him, and, puzzled, I take the hint and sit down. He reaches for my hand, startling me, but he keeps a strong grip on it. "You know why I'm here, Duncan," he says in a low voice.

I try to pull away. "What is this, Methos? Some trick to take my head?"

He won't release my hand, and instead begins to stroke it with his thumb. His eyes are totally lacking in guile, but I can't let that deceive me. "Mac, I have no weapon, it's Holy Ground. And we're old friends. Good friends." Then his expression changes to one of slight uncertainty. "Did I read this wrong?"

"No," I say before dragging him close and plundering his mouth.

"Good," he breathes when I set him free long enough to begin stripping him, his hands assisting me. "Then for once we agree about something."

 

* * *

I wake and he's not there but I can feel his Presence. I pull on a pair of jeans and track him - he's on the porch, already dressed in his slacks and shirt. He looks pensive, but his lips are still kiss swollen and I can feel myself getting hard just looking at him. I sit on the steps next to him and he turns instantly into my embrace. "Good morning," I whisper, kissing him.

"Hmmm." I sit holding him like that for a few minutes, watching the sunrise over the lake. In the distance I can hear a motorboat - holidaymakers, I guess. But I'm wrong - the little dinghy comes closer and then stops a few hundred yards from the shore. He stiffens and I recognise the sign of alarm. "Mac, you'd better get your katana," but I'm already on the move. I can't feel the Presence yet but Joe must have got it wrong about us being the only ones left.

Methos is standing on the gravel looking out at the boat when I return. "Can you see who it is?" I ask, squinting into the light.

"I know who it is," he says, before turning to me. "Duncan, I have a confession to make. I am here because of the Gathering. The Prize needs to be claimed, and it has to be you or me. That's Joe and Peter, come to see the end of the Game. I asked them here." To my horror, he kneels, then looks up at me. "Duncan MacLeod, you are the one most worthy to take the Prize."

"No," I say, backing away a little in horror. He doesn't move. "Methos, this is crazy! You don't even believe in the Game."

"I said I didn't _play the_ Game, Mac. It doesn't mean it's not real. And you have to do this."

"I won't. I _can't._ Not after last night." I come closer despite myself.

"I was afraid of that," he says softly, almost to himself. "Then forgive me, my friend. If you won't claim it," and then the air shimmered and suddenly his Ivanhoe is in his hand, gleaming in the morning sun, "I will."

His sword sweeps at me as he seems to rise off his knees and instinctually I swing to knock the strike away but there is no resistance to my blow. And then there is no sword, only the sound of his head hitting the gravel followed by the heavier crunch of his body.

"No," I moan, unable to believe the evidence of my own eyes. "It can't be." Where is the Ivanhoe? What have you done, Methos? It's Holy Ground - what will that mean?

I collapse to my knees, staring at his bisected corpse, and wait in dread for what must surely be the most powerful Quickening in the world. The fog rises and I brace myself for the pain, but it enters my body gently, without the dramatics I have come to know all too well. There is no pain at all - it is like being enveloped in a soft, warm, sweet-smelling blanket, and I think I can hear wind chimes, and Methos' laugh disappearing into the air. I wait and wait, but then the light is gone, and all that is left is me kneeling on sharp pebbles, and Methos dead in front of me. Can that really be how the world's oldest man dies?

Wearily, I stand up. "Methos," I whisper. It's over. The Game is over. "I don't want the Prize," I say to the empty sky. "I just want him back. That's all I need." The heavens ignore me.

Behind me, the putter of a motor sounds. I know who it is - my Watcher, and Methos'. He had done as I had, and made friends with the man who recorded his life, although he was never as intimate as I was with Joe. I don't look around as I hear the crunching of gravel under two pairs of feet. "God almighty," Joe says quietly. "He said you would take his head. I didn't believe him." Then he puts his hand on my arm, and at last I turn to look at my friend, who has tears in his eyes. "Mac...."

I take Joe into an embrace, offering the comfort he needs, but I can find no tears to answer his. I feel numb. There is no sense of loss, or grief. The corpse in front of me means nothing at all. That's not Methos, I am sure of it. Methos is inside me now.

"What did you see?" I ask Peter over Joe's shoulder. The younger Watcher is more sanguine - friend to Methos he may have been, but he's seen enough deaths to know the inevitability of it.

"You and he walked over to the beach, he knelt, you swung and took his head. Simple. I expected the old man to put up more of a fight." So did I, I say silently.

"You didn't see his sword?"

Peter lifts an eyebrow, looks around pointedly at the weapon-free beach. "The only sword I saw was the one in your hand, MacLeod."

Joe frees himself from my hug. "What the hell happened, Mac?"

"He tricked me, Joe. He made me think he was using his sword against me." I realise that Cassandra wasn't the only Immortal adept at creating illusions. "That crazy ... manipulative ... wonderful son of a bitch," I whisper, and now I can feel the sadness inside me, rising like a tsunami.

//It's okay, Mac. It was the only way I could make you do it.//

I swing around. "Methos?" But there's no one there. His voice .... "Joe, did you hear that?"

"What, Mac?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. We better bury him. Will you help?"

//Bury me up on the hill, Mac. Under that oak - you know the one.//

"He said there was an oak tree," Peter says at the same time, and I jump. What's going on?

//Mac, settle down, they'll think you're crazy.// And then his chuckle is as clear as if he was standing next to me.

 _What's happening?_ I ask in my head.

//You took my Quickening, Duncan. Now I am with you. And you still get the Prize.//

"I never wanted the fucking Prize!" Joe and Peter both stare at me as I shout.

//Told you,// the voice in my head says smugly. //You better get moving - dig the grave before it gets hot.//

 _You're dead and you're still nagging me?_ I say, and then I have to smile. I never thought I would miss Methos' carping.

The two Watchers obviously think I've got a screw loose, and I'm not sure I don't agree with them. Probably a delusion brought on by grief, I tell myself, only to hear Methos' chuckle. "Shut up," I mutter, and get myself a glare. They think I'm being disrespectful as I heft Methos' body in my arms and carry it up the hill. Peter's got my shovel from behind the cabin, and grotesquely, Joe is carrying the shroud that Methos gave him to bring to the island.

 _You thought of everything, didn't you,_ I think sourly at the presence in my head.

//I always did, Mac. I knew you'd be too upset to think about this stuff.//

 _Considerate_ I say to him. I _am_ going nuts, I think. _Did you know this would happen?_

//Me? No, I'm as surprised as you are. Kinda fun, don't you think?//

_We'll see about that. Why didn't you just take my head?_

There is a long silence, and I think the delusion is finally over when his voice rings out inside my mind.

//I'm sorry, Duncan. I ... I wasn't brave enough to live alone. Not without you.//

_So you condemned me to it instead!_

//Yes. Mac, you know what I was. I was never big on ... self-sacrifice.//

_Getting yourself killed was a pretty big sacrifice, don't you think?_

//That was the easy bit. Forgive me?//

_Do I have any choice? Anyway, are you going to be chattering away while I dig your goddamn grave? Isn't that like, sick or something?_

//I'll be good. You won't hear a peep.//

"Huh," I say out loud, laying the corpse on the ground with far more respect than I actually feel. Joe is sitting on a tree stump, looking utterly grief-stricken, and I wish I could tell him what I am hearing, but then I doubt he'd believe me.

I dig a neat two-foot deep, six-foot long grave, and lay Methos' shroud-wrapped body in it. I can't help but feel sorrow at the loss of the beautiful body I have had so recently close to mine. Tears fill my eyes as Joe sprinkles a handful of dirt over the body. "Do you want to say anything?" I ask him.

"He was a good friend. And I'll miss the hell out of him," Joe says in a choked voice.

"Peter?"

He shakes his head, but like Joe, his eyes are moist. Silently, I shovel the dirt over the corpse, and by the time I'm done, I'm weeping openly. I kneel beside the grave. Joe puts his hand on my shoulder. "Give me a few minutes alone, will you, Joe?" I choke out.

"Sure, pal. We'll be back down at the cabin."

"Make yourselves comfortable. I won't be long."

They walk off, and I distract myself a little by smoothing the dirt. "Methos, why did you do it? Damn you!" I fling the shovel away and sob, crouching down, my head on the soil covering my dead lover.

//Duncan, don't cry for me. I'm here.//

"Shut up. You're not real!" I yell.

//Yes, I am. Duncan, please calm down.//

Real or unreal, his voice is gentle but he is unable to console me. "Methos, I need to touch you. If I could just hold you again. That's the only thing I want, all I wanted. I never believed in the Prize."

There is no response, or at least none I can hear over my grief. But then, quietly, I can hear him saying my name like he did in bed last night.

//Mac, I'm sorry. It seemed the only thing I could do. I couldn't bear to be apart from you any more, but if we stayed together ... the madness would get one of us eventually. You know that.//

"But Holy Ground?"

//There's a long-standing legend that the last pair of Immortals must fight there. Did my Quickening hurt you?//

"No," I say, wiping my face, but unable to stand just for the moment. "It felt good. I felt ... I felt loved."

//Then it was the right thing to do. Duncan, just accept it. I am with you now.//

"But it's not the same!"

//Maybe it will be better? Joe and Peter are waiting for you.//

I stand up. "Methos, are you real?"

//Real as the fox crap you just put your foot on.// He laughs.

"I really loved you. I still love you,"

//I know. I can see it all now.//

"Stay with me?"

//Forever. I promise.//

 

* * *

Joe and Peter have already broached the Scotch and I pour myself a large drink. Joe looks bloody awful. At seventy-five, he's become frail at least to my eyes, and his sorrow makes him look older and more fragile than ever. "To Methos," I say, lifting the glass.

"And the end of the Game," Joe says.

"The end of the Watchers too," I add.

"They've already started wrapping things up," Peter says. "In two weeks, the organisation will be nothing but a library and a lot of pensioners."

"What will you do?" I ask him. He's young enough that he could take up something else.

"I might write," he says, shrugging. "Methos left me some money, which was damn nice of him considering. Said it was really from Adam Pierson." Joe and I share sad smiles over that one - 'Adam' was always broke.

//I figured he should have a little fun before he dies,// Methos tells me.

_I'm not arguing with you, old man._

//Most of it's gone to you, and some to Joe. Mac, you should tell him to go to a different doctor - that arthritis can be treated better than that.//

"Mac?" Joe interrupts and I realise he was saying something.

"Sorry, I was just thinking." I clear my throat. "You know, Methos said he thought you should try a different doctor. He didn't think your hands shouldn't be as bad as that."

"And when the hell would he have seen them?" Joe demands.

//Tell him I worked it out from Peter.//

"Peter told him and he figured it out," I parrot. Peter looks a little surprised

 _You know, this is gonna get me locked up,_ I think at him.

//Sor-ree.//

"Hmmm," Joe says. "Maybe he's right. So what's the Prize, Mac? What's changed?"

You don't want to know, Dawson, I think sourly. "Nothing, Joe."

"Are you still Immortal?" Peter asks.

Now that's something I hadn't considered. I go to the kitchen and get one of my little sharp knives, and carefully slice a shallow cut on my arm. I watch anxiously as it heals just as fast as ever. "Yep, so it seems. No change there."

"So it was just a fraud? The Game was a gyp?" Joe asks.

"If you're asking me if it was worth losing all those people for, the answer is no. Nothing would be worth that." My eyes are getting damp again as I think about Methos, and Amanda and my other friends. It comes to me that I am all alone, and I know what Methos was afraid of.

//But not alone now, Duncan.//

_Everyone will die. There are no other Immortals. I will outlive them all._

//Yes,// he says sadly. //But that was almost always true. I've seen so many die before me. You'll learn to live with it.//

_You couldn't._

//I'm not you, Duncan.//

"Mac, where the hell do you keep disappearing off too?" Joe asks impatiently. "I said, what are you going to do now?"

I haven't thought about it. "Go back to Seacouver for now. I can leave with you actually - I hadn't planned to stay more than a couple of nights anyway." Then my heart lurches as I look towards the bedroom and just see the corner of the ruffled bed, still messy and smelling of our love-making. I briefly consider staying one more night so I can share Methos' scent, but ruthlessly step on that. If I start wallowing in nostalgia, I'll be lost. I learned that after Tessa. Better to close everything up. I know it's foolish but being on the island, the place where ... I mean ...

//You'll get over it.// Methos says soothingly. //It's only my body.//

_Leave me alone. I can't adjust to all this. I never wanted this._

//I know. I'll be here when you're ready.//

Will you? I wonder. And like a memory, I am suddenly sure that he will be.

 

* * *

Joe thinks I'm crazy. That's the only downside of this two minds in one body thing. Privacy was a big problem to begin with but I got used to it. The first time I took a leak, I heard Methos laugh in a slightly embarrassed way.

_What?_

//Oh, nothing. I just thought I'd seen it all but watching someone piss at this angle is weird. Your John Thomas looks all wrong.//

_Close your eyes then._

//Mac, I don't _have_ eyes. And if you try to pee with your eyes shut, you're going to make a mess.//

_Well, I got news for you, Methos. This isn't TV. I have to piss and ... the rest. So get used to it._

//Hey, there's no need to get snippy with me, MacLeod. This is new to me too.//

 _God help us,_ I groaned.

//Don't see how he can.//

_Are you going to hear everything I think?_

//Can't help it. I'm sitting right where all your brain activity is happening. You think it's fun ... oh, listening to _that_ sort of language? Mac! I thought you were so well-brought up!//

I groaned again.

//I heard that.//

_I know. Shut up, Methos. I haven't finished and I don't want to water my feet._

To be fair, he was good about things like that, and did shut up whenever I asked. That alone was enough to make me suspicious that this was all just a massive grief-induced delusion.

//It's not. Ask me anything - go on.//

_And what the hell will that prove? If I look it up, I could be kidding myself that you already told me about it._

//Good point. I never thought you were so strong on logical thinking, Mac.//

Joe began to think something was up after I kept referring to Methos in the present tense, and started ordering beer occasionally when he was sure I'd want a whiskey. Not that I minded drinking the occasional beer to keep the old man happy, but my ex-Watcher was worried about me.

That's why I've decided to come out to his house today and tell him the whole story. He still owns the bar, but he spends less and less time there. To tell the truth, Methos dying took the heart of him and after two months of watching him grieve, I can't stand it any more.

His reaction is exactly what I thought it would be.

"You're imagining things, Mac. Feeling guilty about killing the old man."

"I know that's how you could see it ..."

//Ask him about Sipowicz and Simone.//

"What?"

"What?" Joe echoes in confusion.

"He said to ask you about Sipowicz and Simone," I say, embarrassed. _I feel like I'm in a bad remake of '_ Randall and Hopkirk Deceased'.

//I always loved that show.//

 _You would,_ I grumble. Then I see Joe's face as understanding dawns.

"Methos?" he breathes. "Caligula and Incitatus?"

"Except Incitatus was the horse," I repeat.

Wonder blooms on his face. "He's really there? Jesus, Mac. It's not supposed to work like that."

Now he looks a little shocked even though he's overjoyed too. Concerned, I fetch some water for him which he accepts gratefully. "I know it's not, Joe. But it's what happened. I thought I was nuts too, but you've just proved I'm not, since I have no idea what all that was about."

He explains quickly about the ragging Methos had done when they were off in search of Joe's daughter.

//Say hello for me, Mac.//

"He says hello."

Joe laughs. "Hello to you, you old bastard. Mac - can he speak directly or does he have to go through you?"

"Through me. Don't give him any ideas, Joe. It's hard enough putting up with him as it is."

//You wound me, MacLeod.//

Joe guesses what Methos has said by the grin on my face, and suddenly my friend looks better than he has done in two years - since before the Gathering started. "Well, I'll be damned. So he isn't really dead?"

"His body is. Don't ask me whether this qualifies as living because honestly I have no idea."

"So this is why you haven't exactly been going the sackcloth and ashes route. You had me worried - it wasn't like you."

//Told you that you should have put on a better act,// he says smugly.

_Shut up._

//You invited me along, Mac. Don't be rude.//

Joe can see the absent look on my face and he chuckles. "Doesn't give you much peace, huh?"

"You're not joking," I say but it's hard to be irritated when I'm this happy.

 

* * *

Having Methos with me has made the Post-Gathering transition much easier but it is still a huge change for me. I have built my whole life around the pressures of the Game, either being involved or avoiding it, and now all that is gone. I don't need to carry a sword and just that one thing makes my life so much simpler.

//You still could be whacked by a crazy, MacLeod.//

_Dammit, I'm not carrying a gun! Methos, I can kill a man fifty ways with my bare hands._

//Not if he shoots you.//

_And why would he behead me after he shot me?_

//For fun? Remember, Mac, you're living for two now.//

_You don't need to keep reminding me of that, Methos._

He was right of course ...

//Aren't I always?//

_Methos ...._

//Shutting up.//

As I was saying, it's still a violent world out there, but it's nothing compared to the ferocity of the Game as it became. And life is a lot lonelier. I miss Methos....

//Hey!//

The _corporeal_ Methos. The one who drank all my beer and put his shoes on the counter and used to grin at me in that infuriating way ... I miss the _look_ of him so much. I don't even have a photograph. And then there is the night time.... It's so empty ....

//Duncan, you are never alone.//

_Damn you, Methos! If we hadn't danced around for so bloody long I'd have so many memories of you making love to me ... it's not the same...._

//Don't cry, love. Let's try something.//

I have some idea what he's up to. _Methos, you're a ghost. This can't work._

//I'm _not_ a ghost!// I smile at his indignation. //Now, take your clothes off - better, go and stand in front of the mirror so I can see.//

_Gives a whole new meaning to autoerotica, don't you think?_

//See? See? Your vocabulary is definitely improving since you started reading gay literature.//

_I thought you wanted to see me strip._

//I do. Now take your time, Duncan. Did I ever tell you how much I like that sweater?//

"Since you swiped it every chance you could, I figured it out for myself."

//No, infant. On _you._ That cream colour really makes your skin look so dark and romantic. Take it off. And the shirt. Now touch your nipples.//

I cross my arms over my chest defensively. _Okay, this is officially too weird for me._

//Pretend it's me - it _is_ me in a way. No, don't close your eyes!// he says urgently. //That's better. I want to see everything. Feel everything.//

_Can you feel me touching myself, or does it feel like you're doing it?_

//Both. Oh god, Mac - you're beautiful. I wanted you from the first time I saw you working out in the dojo.//

_When you came to warn me about Kristen?_

//That's the one. I don't know how you missed how hard I was when you had your katana against my throat.//

_And me._

//I didn't miss that.// He chuckles. I never knew what a dirty laugh he had.

_You could have said something._

//Oh right. And then you would have been in the perfect position to remove the nuisance kneeling in front of you.//

"I wouldn't have done it ... never would have ..."

//Unless I tricked you. Let it go, Duncan. This is not so bad.//

I can't do this any more and I haul my shirt back on. "It's no good, Methos. I need you to be here, and that will never happen."

//I still love you, Duncan. No body but with my entire soul.// He sounds sad.

"And I love you, Methos. I always will. But I need to hold you so bad. I miss the sound of you, the smell of you, the feel of your hair. Do you understand?"

//Yes.//

"Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

//Yeah.//

"I'm sorry, Methos." And I really am. Here I am with the man I love permanently with me, and I'm bitching. "Do you still want to take me to bed?"

//Thought you weren't in the mood?// And then he snuffles.

_But you don't have a nose ..._

//Look, I'm not an expert on this shit, okay? All I know is that I'm 'crying' and my 'nose' is blocked up!//

 _Settle down, old man._ I take my clothes off slowly, making sure he and I can see everything. I guess it's no stranger than undressing for Tessa, which she used to love. I take myself in hand.

//You don't have to do this if you don't feel comfortable,// he says almost shyly.

_I'd probably jerk off anyway, and this will be better. Can you feel my hand on my cock?_

//Yes. It's impressive.//

_Not looking for compliments._

//Accept them, you barbarian, and stop grinning. You know you have a wonderful body. Touch your balls. Oh, Mac. That's ... it's me touching you and you touching you ... wow!//

_Enjoying yourself?_

//Consider me noncorporeally hard as a rock.//

_I wish I could touch you. I loved the feel of your skin._

//I love the feel of yours. And the taste of you.//

 _I can't kiss myself. Wait..._ I lick my arm. _What was that like?_

//Salty. Duncanish. Mac, I love you.// he says softly.

It's not the same. I can't replicate the feel of him inside me, or the taste of his cock, or the springiness of his pubic hair. But in some ways, it's much more intimate than that. We have no secrets from each other. He instantly knows when I am sad or angry, and unlike when he was in his own body (I no longer think of it 'when he was alive'), he doesn't hide behind sarcasm or rudeness.

It's harder on Joe. He believes in Methos' presence utterly but I know he misses him anyway. Talking to him through me is just not the same. Still, his grief has eased a lot, and he is happier, if still rather frail. I know that I won't have many more years with him.

_They all die._

//Yes. And yet people would envy us Immortality.//

If only they knew, I think.

Before ... I had fantasised about travelling the world with Methos at my side, and now I do that. I can't see his reactions, or hold his hand as we stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon, or in front of the Seven Sisters, but he can see it all as I do, and tell me how he feels. And he tells me the rest too - about his long life, about the Horsemen, about his life when he finally managed to escape Kronos. I listen to it all in absolute wonder and fascination, and begin to count myself the luckiest man on earth.

_Do you think this was the Prize?_

//Me? You've _got_ to be kidding, MacLeod. No, maybe it's because I wanted to be with you so badly, or because it was Holy Ground. Dunno.//

_Is the Game really over? Maybe there are some Immortals still left alive. The Watcher records aren't exactly complete._

//Tell me about it. Maybe you're right. But maybe there just is no Prize.//

_You died for nothing._

//Not 'nothing', Mac. I don't call this 'nothing'.//

I've got over the feeling of missing him, except at night. We have got the masturbation to order thing down pat, and Methos sure has some amazing fantasies.

_Do I even want to know where you got them from?_

//Unlikely. Just enjoy them.//

_How would you feel if I had sex with someone else?_

//Like a voyeur. It might be fun.//

_And if I fell in love with them?_

A long silence. //I would wait for you, Mac.//

 _It will never happen,_ I say fiercely.

//Never is a hell of a long time, Duncan.//

It hasn't come up, not that I expected it to, but I can't really imagine anyone taking his place. The intimacy we share so far surpasses even what I had with Tessa, who is the benchmark for any relationship I will have or have had.

//I know. I can see all your memories of her.//

_What do you mean, you can 'see' all my memories? What the hell are you up to in there?_

//I have to do something while you're asleep. I just have a bit of a rummage around. You know you really ought to have a clear-out.//

_You look at all my memories? Methos!_

//Mac, I can't help it. Everything's just _there_. It's not like I'm going to sell them to the _National Enquirer_.//

_I suppose it can't do any harm. I just never told anyone about some of that stuff._

//But I'm not just anyone.// I can easily imagine the mischievous grin.

_If you want to do something while I'm asleep, why don't you make me dream about you?_

//Don't know if I can.//

_Try?_

So he does and that night I have the most intense dream I can ever remember. We're on the barge. He's dressed in a Roman tunic, and I'm in ... _a kilt, Methos?_

//Hey, it's my fantasy. Besides, no underwear equals easy access.//

_Oh yeah, for what? ... oh..._

//Yeah. Oh. See what I mean?//

_Mmmm mmm. If you could do this before, why didn't you?_

//Didn't know I could. I told you I didn't know anything about this stuff.//

_Well, by all means, keep up the research._

 

* * *

It's two days before the anniversary of Methos' 'death' and he's been kvetching at me for a week.

//Mac, you don't have to visit the grave. It's just bones now.//

_It's tradition. Anyway, I have to visit the cabin, it'll need repairs done to it._

//Yeah, but you don't have to go now. Trust me, MacLeod, this is not a good thing for you to do.//

_What are you afraid of, Methos?_

//Absolutely nothing, MacLeod. I just think this is maudlin and stupid. Or do you still think I'm a figment of your imagination?//

_Not any more. Is that what you're worried about?_

//Your fixation over my corpse is a little insulting, don't you think?//

_I'm not fixated, you idiot! I just think it's respectful to visit the grave once or twice. It's the least I can do._

//How many times do I have to tell you? You don't need to feel guilty. Duncan, I _planned_ it.//

_Well, I'm going and since I'm in the driving seat, I get to choose._

//You know this is really your unattractive side?//

_Want a divorce, old man?_

//No, just an infusion of common sense. You're packing too much underwear again.//

_Methos, I've been doing for myself for four hundred years ..._

/And you _still_ pack too much.//

I let him grumble at me. His fears may be stupid, but they're obviously real to him, and I need to take him seriously. I've come to understand there really is a separate person inside me, and although he does have to do what I choose, I need to give him as much attention and concern as I would a corporeal partner. He wants to go to Bilbao in the autumn - that'll make it up to him.

I've left it a little later in the year than I would normally come up, and the first tendrils of cool autumn air are tingeing the bright cleanness of the lake. It feels good to be back - I've been thinking of making my permanent home up here, and would have done if Methos hadn't formed this strange objection.

//Mac, I don't feel so good.//

I stop rowing. _You feel sick? How is that possible?_

//Not sick. Weird. Like I'm being drained.//

_When did this start?_

//When you got on the water.//

 _Well, that explains it. You've never liked the water._ I start rowing again.

//Mac, please don't!//

 _Methos, you're being silly, you know that. You said it yourself. There's just bones there. If anyone_ _should be feeling bad, it should be me, and I feel fine._

//I can feel you're worried, Duncan. You can't put on a brave face with me.//

_Okay, I'm worried. But I'm still going to the island and that's final. If you feel worse once we get there, I promise we'll come home. Okay?_

//Some compromise,// he grumbles.

 _Shut up, I'm busy._ And then I concentrate on the rowing.

Close to the shore I jump in the water to pull the boat in, and as my feet hit the bottom, a tremendous pain shoots through my head. I nearly fall.

//Mac!// Methos screams in panic. // Help me!//

 _How?!_ I stagger up onto the bank, dragging the dinghy up on the shore before collapsing on the ground and grabbing at my head. The agony feels like a Quickening and I'm not the only one in distress - Methos is wailing in obvious pain. _Methos!_

//Mac! Please, get us out of here!//

This time I don't ignore him but before I can crawl to the boat - walking is out of the question, I am blinded by the tearing pain in my skull - Methos shrieks and then all that is left is an awful silence.

"Methos!" I shout. The pain and the loss of vision is suddenly gone, but I feel no relief, only dread. "Methos?" But nothing comes to me.

 _Methos, where are you? I_ can't even feel the place in my head that I think of as him any more. "No," I moan.

The grave. The only place I can think that might hold the answer is up on the hill and I run up, tearing my trousers on briars that have overgrown the path but I don't care. Nature has covered the mound but it is still there. That is not the thing I notice - it is the overwhelming sense of Immortal Presence that I can feel, that I have not felt for a year. "Methos! Are you here?"

No answer, but somebody's Quickening is here and it can only be him. But where is he? With a sudden revulsion, I realise the Presence is _below_ me - in the grave. "Dear god," I whisper, before I start to dig with my bare hands. This is insane, I tell myself even as I dig. You've finally lost it, Duncan. This last year has been one gigantic delusion. You're probably not even here, you're probably in an asylum, drugged up to the eyeballs and wearing a straitjacket, dreaming all of this ... And all the time my hands tear and lift and throw the dirt aside, the song of the strange Quickening calling me.

I've reached the paleness of the shroud - white no longer, of course, but mud coloured from the dirt - and I freeze. What in God's name am I doing? Isn't it enough I killed this man without violating his corpse? But I can't stop now, and so I clear the soil enough that I can lift the canvas wrapped bundle out of the shallow grave. Horrified, I can feel movement, and I scrabble to unwrap ...Methos.

A sight I never thought to see again - Methos whole and apparently alive. He's breathing but that's the only sign that he is no longer dead. He's deeply unconscious, white as the corpse I thought he was, and bearing an ugly purple line around the long throat where I had sliced the head from his shoulders. Didn't I? I couldn't have imagined something so revolting, could I?

Enough of that - for now, I need to get the old man into the cabin. His skin is freezing, and he weighs so little. I don't even want to think about how long he may have been in the grave, alive. Did Methos - I mean, the Methos in my head - go back to his body? Was this why he was afraid?

I've never been comfortable with metaphysical matters, despite my repeated contacts with otherworldly things and the frank impossibility of Immortal existence itself, and so I ignore the 'whys' and busy myself with practical things. Laying Methos on the porch, fetching my bags, making sure the boat is properly moored, before opening up the cabin and carrying him to the couch and covering him with a blanket. Although it is not cold, I build a fire anyway. I think briefly of carrying him to the bedroom but it will be warmer in here, so I just get some pillows and more blankets and make him snug. He's wearing the clothes that I buried - killed - him in, and I strip them off him. Later I will wash him, but the important thing is to get him warm and awake so I can see what, if anything, is left of the man I knew.

Soup, tea. Comfort food, hot food. I make it all and wait for him to revive. It doesn't take long before his eyes open, the lids fluttering.

"Methos," I say, taking his hand. He turns to the sound but there is no recognition in his eyes, and worse, no intelligence. "Methos, it's Duncan."

He continues to stare at me vacantly. Is this all that is left? A mindless idiot? Please don't let it be that I will have to take his head a second time.

Squashing down the urge to weep, I fetch a bowl of soup and a towel, so that I can spoon the food into his mouth. He doesn't even swallow the first few attempts, and it all dribbles out his slack mouth. I massage his throat a little and miraculously, that seems to penetrate his understanding, for he swallows the next spoonful and the next. Soon I have got a whole bowl full into him, but he hasn't got the wit to wipe his own mouth nor is he showing any sign of understanding.

I lay him down again and his eyes close immediately. I tuck him up like a child and then go out on the porch to think. Methos' intellect must have gone somewhere, and the only logical place is back into his body. But why is he so helpless? Is it just the shock of reviving?

Now I can give way to the tears and I cry a little for my loneliness and my worry. Is this the punishment for fratricide? For surely I killed the man who is my brother. Now I know what it is like to have him so close, I know I will not be able to live if he does not come back to me.

His wordless yells have me running back in - he's tangled up in the blankets and calling desperately in grunts and strangled cries. His hands reach desperately for me, and as I enfold him in my arms, soothing him with murmurs and stroke his hair, I know I cannot do it. I cannot take his head. If I have to nurse him for a thousand years, then I will. Even this is better than being alone. He needs me. I need to be needed.

His cries die down and he coos a little as I caress his thin face. After a year remembering the strong healthy man I made love to, it is shocking to see him so reduced, scrawny and weak and mindless. He reaches up and traps a loose lock of my hair and is apparently fascinated by it. His smile is suddenly so familiar my stomach lurches, but it's without any comprehension behind it.

I cuddle him close and say his name until he settles and I can lay him down again. His skin is much warmer, and his colour is no longer dead white. His hair is long and lank, and I will have to tidy him up. Will he be able to walk? What about toilet functions?

I go to stand up but he clutches at my hand, becoming distressed, so I slide myself at the end of the sofa and settle his head on my lap. "You may not know much but you know what you want, don't you?" I say, stroking his face. He snuggles contentedly and falls asleep, leaving me trapped with him and with my thoughts. Already I am beginning to plan our future. If he will need constant nursing, the loft is unsuitable. He left me a property in London which might do, with modifications. The island will be no good.

What about Joe? It would break his heart to see the old man like this, and I wonder if I could possibly conceal things until Joe passes away. It would mean pretending that Methos still lived in my head. Worth a try, I guess.

Inevitably, my thoughts return to that fateful day a year ago, and the night before. Having only seen Methos with Alexa, I was unprepared for the forceful, decisive lover he became, but the sweetness was the same, the tenderness and the gentleness. He took and gave in equal measure, and making love to him was, without exaggeration, a life-altering experience. Another thing lost forever.

I should have grabbed a book before settling with Methos, and sheer boredom makes me doze. His muttering wakes me up, and with a shock I realise that what is emerging from his lips is a garbled version of my own name. "That's right, Methos, it's Duncan," I urge. His eyes open and he smiles vacantly but there is no indication that he understands me. But he keeps saying my name ... and then his own, strangely clear in the babble.

"Methos," I say deliberately. He looks at me curiously, eyes tracking my face. "Methos."

"Methos," he whispers, then begins his gabbling again. My heart lifts - already he is speaking, so perhaps it will just be a matter of time? Or will there be a limit on his recovery?

I chafe his hands and keep saying his name, which he ignores. But he smiles at my touch, and reaches for my hair again.

I let him play for a while, then checking my watch, I decide more food and some liquid won't hurt. The tea is cold so I add some fruit juice to it and he lets me spoon it into his mouth without complaint. This time he spills far less, and I think it won't be long before he can hold the cup himself. Sniffing him, I can smell  the grave scent that clings to him, making me nauseous. I slip out from under him and he whimpers. "Easy, love," I say, the endearment slipping out. "I'm going to run you a bath. You'll like that."

His cries follow me into the bathroom. Fortunately we have hot water all year thanks to solar power, and with the electrical booster which I've switched on, soon I have a steaming bath run for him. I lay everything out for him before returning to the living room where my entrance makes him smile. So he can recognise me, that's good, and I decide to take it as an optimistic sign.

Crunch time - will he support himself? I help him stand up, and his legs are undeniably wobbly, but he walks after a fashion, not well and certainly not without help, but it seems to be more weakness than inability - his muscles seem to remember what his mind cannot.

He looks around the bathroom with birdlike curiosity and it seems obvious to me that his understanding is increasing with every minute that passes - the vacant look is gone completely. I decide to risk him using the toilet and take him in hand, pointing his cock at the bowl. He looks at me with a sardonic expression which is pure Methos - 'just what do you think you are doing?' I can almost hear him say. Still holding him, I fumble my own sex out and piss, _pour encourager les autres_ so to speak, and I can see the light go on. Without further ado he lets fly, and I almost giggle, remembering our discussion a year ago about this very thing. He smiles at me as I shake him off.

"In you get, Methos." The hot water seems to alarm him and I have to make an elaborate pantomime of how good the water feels and isn't it wonderful, and oh look, bubbles! I hope to God if Methos does return he doesn't remember anything about this because I want to die of embarrassment, but at least it does persuade him to step into the water.

I could wash him from outside the tub, but it's easier inside, so I strip, his eyes following every move I make, and step in next to him. I take a cloth and soap it, wondering if I dare risk washing his dirty hair, and wipe his face gently. He tastes the foam and spits in disgust, looking at me as if I have played a nasty trick on him. "Sorry, old man. Not for internal use, you know."

He snorts at that, and for a moment it's as if he's understood me, but it's an illusion. He lets me wipe him down, watching me warily in case any of the soap comes near his mouth. He reaches for the hot tap. "No, Methos," I say sharply and he turns in enquiry. I say his name again and he smiles. He understands! I smile back to encourage him then say my name, tapping my chest. This just confuses him, so we aren't that far along after all.

I decide to risk washing his hair, but although he waits passively for me to fill a jug and pour it over him, he splutters indignantly as water gets in his eyes. "Fu'k," I hear him say.

"Fuck?" I ask him.

"Fuck," he says emphatically shaking his head and sneezing. I hug him and he giggles, so I tickle him a little and he giggles again, the innocent sound at odds with his baritone voice.

"I love you, Methos," I say into the crook of his neck, but he wriggles in my grip. Sighing as I release him, I rub shampoo into his hair, and manage to convince him by signs and example that he should keep his eyes tightly shut while I rinse him off. He still manages to swallow a little of the soapy water and he spits it out indignantly.

"Fuck?" I say.

"Fuck," he says back. "Yuck."

Great, he has a three word vocabulary now. Ridiculous how happy that makes me. I towel his hair while he's still in the bath to stop him getting cold and he thinks this is a great game, tugging at the towel and making it very difficult to do what I'm planning. His giggling echoes around the small room and it makes me smile to hear it. Such an _alive_ sound.

Getting him out of the bath and dry is another adventure, and he laughs the whole time. He's so damn thin, as if he has been alive for the twelve months since I took his head and not eaten in all that time. I hope to god that isn't true - many an Immortal was driven insane by being trapped in a tomb. But Methos doesn't seem insane, just childlike, and like a child, his comprehension is growing in leaps and bounds.

He shivers as the cooler air of the living room hits him, and I hustle him, still wrapped in a towel, over to the fire which I poke back into life before searching for some suitable clothes. I only brought enough for me, of course, but I did pack some sweats which will be much too big but comfortable for him. He watches me with amusement as I dress him. He makes no effort to help me, but I get the strong impression this is because it is funnier to watch me struggle with pants over uncooperative long legs than because he is actually incapable of assisting me.

"You're a pain in the bum, Methos," I say fondly.

"Bum," he mimics. Oh, terrific. Four words, two of them rude.

"Duncan," I try again, pointing to myself.

"Dun'n?" he says, squinting with effort.

"Dun-can," I say slowly.

"Dun-can," he imitates with care.

"Good, Methos." He smiles at my grin.

"Duncan," he says again and I stroke his face to reward him. He reaches for my hair again, pulling a face at the wetness of the ends (well he did splash me so it's his own fault). "Mac," he says after due consideration.

I want to shout with joy. "That's right, Methos. Mac."

It's a shame we aren't back in the loft, where I have brought so many of Methos' own possessions. He was never at the island enough to make an impression, so there is nothing I can use other than my own person to recall him to his former life. All I can do is talk to him, hope he recognises the odd word and maybe the fog surrounding his mind will lift.

He's still weak and tired. After I dress him, and he finishes playing with my hair, he curls up again. I cover him with the blankets and after snagging a book this time, I let him fall asleep on me as he did before. I look at what I have grabbed, and laugh quietly. It's actually a book he bought for me years ago - a Jane Austen omnibus. I remember him teasing me - "What's the matter, Highlander? Your manhood challenged by the idea of reading a female author?"

"Not at all," I'd retorted. "She's a bit gentle for you, isn't she?"

"Just because she doesn't wield a sword, doesn't mean she's not deadly." He'd tossed the book into my lap. "Anyway, she might teach you a thing or two about subtlety."

At the time, I dipped into a couple of the stories and found them far too effete for my mood, so the book had lain untouched since then. But now I find the refined, detailed writing suits me perfectly, and I lose myself in the two hundred year old story of Miss Anne Elliot and her frustrated love life, smiling to myself over the parallels between _Persuasion_ and my own relationship with Methos. He'd particularly recommended it to me, and now I realise that he was even then trying to tell me something. It's not just you who's daft, I think fondly.

He sleeps for hours, and I'm hungry and wanting a pee long before he yawns and rolls over. The first thing he does when he sees me is smile broadly, and I am lost again in those laughing eyes of his. "Duncan," he says precisely.

"Methos," I acknowledge. "Are you hungry?"

He cocks his head, apparently aware that the words should make sense, even though they don't, which is an advance of sorts. "Food," I say, and touch his mouth.

"Food?" He knits his brow. "Beer?"

I can't help it, I laugh out loud, which alarms him. "Duncan?"

I hug him close. "Oh, you idiot. Beer isn't food, how many times do I have to tell you that?"

He giggles because I'm laughing, and then it is so natural to kiss him on the cheek. He turns his head and purses his lips, so obvious an invitation, I could cry. I peck him chastely and he looks disappointed. "You're a damn temptation," I growl. He still looks worried so I ruffle his hair. "Beer?"

"Ye ... yes?" he says tentatively.

"Yes, that's right," I nod enthusiastically. It's clear now that he is rapidly sorting out his memory of language, and I have every hope he will return to normality. What is much more encouraging is that his intellect, his intelligence, seems to be whole, and it is just a matter of time. I hope it returns sooner rather than later. I miss him so much.

Fortunately, I have brought beer, and even though it's not cold, he sips at the bottle appreciatively, and picks at the sandwich I make him to accompany it. "Good," he says. He carefully repeats the words I say - 'bottle', 'glass', 'sandwich' - but has yet to make the breakthrough into actual sentences. Even with the food and the sleep, it's not long before he's trembling with fatigue, and I realise with shock that a whole day has passed in this strange fashion. Time for both of us to go to bed.

Now he's warmed up, I can see no reason for him not to sleep in the bedroom, and since he can't bear for me to be away from him for more than a minute, it's obvious where he's going to be. He lets me help him pee again, again to his huge amusement, and I decide not to even think about trying to clean his teeth, just encouraging him to rinse and spit with water. I strip him since I know sweats will be too hot, and when I do the same, he traces a curious finger down my chest, looking at my chest hair and comparing it to his own hairlessness. It's as if everything is brand new and wonderful to him, and it's so beguiling, watching him discover everything as if for the first time.

He cuddles close, happy to let me wrap him up in my arms, and the heavy warmness of him feels so good after a year of missing this very thing. Ironic - when I had Methos' mind, I wanted his body, and now I have his body but not his mind. This time, I hope if I wait, I will have both.

I sleep the whole night through, so does he, and when I wake, he is suckling on the tender skin at the base of my throat, licking and tasting it like a cat will do. I don't think he's even properly awake. I tangle my hand in his hair and rub a little and he lifts his head to look at me. "Duncan?"

"I'm here, Methos."

He sighs and lays his head back down, actually goes back to sleep. I stroke his back lazily, gently, but don't sleep again myself. How much will he gain today? Can I see a time when I will be able to have a proper conversation with him?

It's not half an hour before he twists and yawns, and then looks at me with bright eyes. "You look good," I say, deliberately using the word he knows.

"I ...I?"

"I, that's right." I begin to understand the problem - it's not that he's sorting out one language, he knows hundreds. He's got five thousand years to process.

"I ... good?"

"You are very good, Methos. Are you hungry?"

"Hungry ..." he says consideringly. "Food? Beer?"

"Food, no beer."

"No?"

"No. Beer is not for breakfast." Actually, for many centuries it was, and I'm probably adding to his confusion.

He wrinkles his brow. "Beer ...no food. _Not_ food," he corrects himself.

"Beer is not food," I say solemnly.

"Beer ...is ...is...?" He asks for confirmation of the word and I nod. "Beer is ... good?"

"Beer is good. Beer is not food." I laugh at the Dick and Jane conversation and his lips curve in a beautiful smile.

"Beer is food," he says and I am about to correct him when I see the glint in his eyes. He knows perfectly well what he's just said.

"You're a pain in the bum, Methos."

"Duncan is ... bum. A bum." He stares at me, defying me to correct him and I cuff him gently to his delight.

"Enough of this, old man. If you want breakfast, you have to get up."

Too many words he doesn't yet know and he looks at me in confusion before understanding dawns as I stand up and pull my boxers on. I throw his sweats at him. "You know what to do with those."

He looks at the pants in puzzlement, but when I mime putting them on, he dresses in them readily enough, and I help him on with the sweat shirt. He picks at the material. "Good," he says softly.

He's much improved and walks with only my hand to guide him. I don't suppose he's up to a run but a few yards to the living room is well within his powers. I lead him over to the kitchen counter and make him sit on a stool while I make toast and scrambled eggs - he needs the protein - for our breakfast. He watches everything I do in total fascination, and he is so plainly curious that I make a great thing of showing him every implement, naming them and letting him taste the raw egg mixture before I pour it into the pan. He solemnly repeats every word I tell him, and clearly remembers each of them. I'm hoping I won't have to rebuild his vocabulary from scratch. He actually reaches for the toast out of the toaster, and when I hand him butter on a knife, he spreads it carefully and accurately on the bread.

The eggs meet with his approval - he feeds himself in adult fashion - and is hungry for more. He's ravenous actually, and consumes a vast quantity of eggs and toast and juice - I'll need to restock soon, I had only brought food for one. Finally he's replete, and I take his plate from him. "Thank .... thank?"

"Thank you."

"Thank you ... Duncan. Good food."

I kiss his cheek. "You're welcome, Methos."

He touches his face where I kissed him. "Good," he says. He points to his cheek and is trying to remember how to ask.

"More? Another kiss?"

"Yes. Another."

I kiss his lips this time, and he smiles. "Good. Another." And so he gets one. "More?"

"No. Not for breakfast."

"Not food?" he asks innocently.

I tap his head. "Better than food. Come outside."

I take his hand and lead him onto the porch. It's another beautiful morning, although it will probably rain that afternoon. Shoes are a problem - I'm forced to put the ones he was buried in back on his feet but he doesn't care, wriggling out of my grasp and walking slowly onto the shore towards the water. The chill of the lake astonishes him, and he looks back at me for reassurance. He kneels down to take a closer look, then looks up at the sky, back to the cabin, and I can see the frown building. Too late I realise what he's remembering but even as I run down the shore, he's clutching his head in pain and screaming, falling to the ground and then scrabbling at it in a desperate attempt to escape the agony.

I seize him and shake him. "Methos! It's okay, it's over!"

His eyes open and then widen in terror as he sees the man who killed him. "Noooo!" he wails and struggles.

"Methos!" In desperation I slap him and he struggles even more to escape his murderer. "Methos! Stop!"

He claws at his head, screams once and his eyes roll back in his head before he goes completely limp. Panicking, I feel for his pulse in his neck - it's there, pounding hard. I lift him up and stagger up the shore a little, away from the water's edge, before laying him down. I cradle his head on my lap, and stroke his face.  Dear God, if he remembers me killing him - he'll hate me unless he remembers the rest. I bend to kiss him, thinking this might be my last chance to do so and his eyes flutter open. He winces a little against the light.

"Methos?" I say softly.

"Mac?" he whispers, then reaches up to touch my face. "It's really you?"

"Yes, it's really me. How do you feel?"

"I ... how ... Mac, I'm dead." He frowns. "You killed me. Didn't you?"

I help him sit, but he rolls as if he is dizzy, and goes pale. "Take it easy, Methos. I don't know what's going on either. Yes, I took your head a year ago, and yes, you were dead. But now you aren't."

"A dream?" he said in confusion, but then he looks at the oversized sweats, and the dirt on his knees and like me, he's obviously thinking this is a weird dream.

"I don't think so. We can't both be dreaming."

"I'm alive. Mac - I'm alive," he said in a wondering voice. He touches my face again and I seize his hand.

"Yes, you are. We both are. I don't understand it."

"I remember ... I was _in_ you, in your head. Wasn't I?"

"You sure were. Do you remember telling Joe?"

"Sipowicz and Simone?"

"That's right."

A smile grows. "Mac ... it's real. I got you back."

"And I've got you," I say in a voice choked by emotion, pulling him close and shedding a few tears of relief on his neck. He pats my back gently.

"Duncan, these rocks ...."

"Oh, right." I help him stand and he sways. "Careful."

"I feel like shit."

"Trust me, old man, you're a hundred times better than when I dug you up yesterday."

"Dug.... ? Oh my god." He touches his neck and feels the already fading scar. "This is too weird for me."

"And me. Come inside."

He's gone weak at the knees and I have to help him inside. He collapses onto the sofa gratefully. "I think I need a drink."

"Beer?"

"Scotch. A triple."

I smile to myself at having him back and already asking for things. It's barely eight o'clock but I pour myself a drink too - it's going to be that sort of day. I hand him his whiskey and as soon as I sit next to him, he snuggles close. "Lord, I missed you, Duncan."

I nuzzle in his hair. "Well, you know how much I missed you. I have no secrets from you, Methos."

He turns his face to me for a kiss and I take my time. So much better than I remembered it. "Now," he says finally. "Tell me what happened."

I explain and his puzzlement grows. "This is beyond anything I have ever heard of, Mac. Tell me, what did you say when you killed me? I mean, immediately."

"What, after I stopped cursing you? I said I didn't want the Prize, I just wanted you. The next thing I know, you're inside  my head kibbitzing." I think about what I've just said. "It can't be as simple as that."

"Obviously it can." He sips his drink and doesn't meet my eyes.

"You mean I could have wished for world peace, or Tessa and Richie to be alive again...."

"And instead you got me," he says dryly. "Sorry if it's a disappointment."

I stand up and stare at him. "You planned this?"

"Oh, do listen to yourself, MacLeod," he says sharply. "Do you think I would have done things in such a cack-handed fashion if I had the faintest idea what would happen?"

"But _you_ were the one who insisted on the Prize being won, not me." I feel confused, betrayed. I can't look at him.

"Mac, if we had gone on like we were, the Prize not being claimed would have eaten at you until one of us snapped. All your dead lovers, dead friends - dead _students._ " he says harshly, forcing me to meet his eyes. "At some point you would have felt compelled to win, just to see if world peace _was_ the Prize. I'm sorry I'm such a poor consolation."  He stands up and hugs himself, glaring at me defiantly. "I suppose I'd better leave."

He turns away but not before I see the sorrow hiding behind his bravado, and I realise what we are doing to each other, saying to each other. I come to him and take his shoulders in my hands. "No, don't. Methos, I'm so sorry. You aren't a consolation prize. It's all just a shock to me."

"You said it yourself, MacLeod. Your first choice would have been Tessa, or Richie. Just about anyone but me."

"No!" I shake him a little and he grimaces at the liberty. "No, Methos. I love you. I loved them. I didn't want any of them to die, or you. I'm just saying that if I had been able to think, if I'd known what was involved, I would have asked for so much. But maybe I wouldn't have got it right. At least you're here, alive, healthy and sane. That's enough."

"Is it? Mac, if knowing what you could have had is going to poison what is between us, I don't think I can't stand it. I'd rather have the memory of a year's intimacy and love than to endure five minutes of your loathing."

"And I'd rather have _you_ here in the flesh so I can kiss you," and I demonstrate, "hold you, and love you. Methos, yes, I want the others. I always will. The price was much too high, you knew that. But forgive me if I am selfish enough to hold on to you. You are too precious to lose. Not again."

He closes his eyes and there is real pain on his face. "But will you ever forgive me?"

"There is _nothing_ , nothing at all to forgive, Methos. I mispoke." I tilt his head. "Look at me, love. Will _you_ forgive _me_?"

He opens his eyes, and there is such love and sorrow in them, my heart aches. "Duncan, I couldn't not forgive you. All of this is because I couldn't bear to live without you any more. Do you think I would turn away from you now?"

"No. And don't. Methos, we are the only Immortals left in the world. Please don't leave me alone." I put all the emotion I feel into my expression and he suddenly smiles wryly.

"Oh, don't do that, Mac. I can't resist those eyes of yours. Yes, okay. You're stuck with me."

I hug him. "Thank you.  I don't think I've told you that I love you yet."

"No, but go ahead."

"Why don't you let me show you?"

"Oh, I think I could be persuaded," he says, deadpan, as I start to walk him backwards to the bedroom. "But just because I was the passenger for a year, doesn't mean you get to be boss in this relationship."

"Age before beauty, I always say." I lay him back on the bed and begin to remove shoes and pants with single-minded devotion.

"Pearls before swine, you mean," he grins.

"Methos ..."

"Shutting up, Mac."

And it is all as good as I remember it. I hope it always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings - This is not a death fic. It is in fact a Clayton's Death Fic (and if you are old enough to understand this, you should be home playing with the grandkids!). But Amanda is no longer with us.


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